The Closest I Have
by Ltdmoon
Summary: As his sanity continues to waver, Will reflects on what has become of his dealings with Dr. Lecter, and recognizes the only thing that may save him from truly losing everything.


I grip my coffee mug and lift it carefully to my lips, hands trembling as they so often do. The coffee is sharp, and I pull the mug away, bringing the dark liquid into view. Forgot the cream and sugar. I set it down; not worth it to go back to the kitchen and add them. I check my watch; 2:46 p.m. I should get going soon.

It's been a week since my last therapy session with Dr. Lecter. At first, I always felt relieved after they were over, and a growing anticipation, a flutter of nerves and half-formed thoughts overcame me more and more as the week flew by. Good or bad, I can't honestly say. It's changed now - I dread the appointments less, but I am still just as jittery beforehand. Then what is it? Am I scared of the appointments? No, not scared. I already know what's in my own mind. Do I look forward to my time with the Doctor? After all this time, I'm still not sure, but I feel something between apprehension and excitement, and it at least motivates me to go each week.

What is it I like about the sessions? Many patients probably feel glad to have a designated time to talk about themselves - to get their feelings and thoughts out in the open. As things in my mind seem to become increasingly scattered, fragmented, and unsure, I'm almost afraid to speak of them, as if it might make them fester and grow like a disease that feeds off of thought. But after all, it helps to hear that it isn't all in my head - that I can't just be imagining that there is something wrong with me, something tearing me apart, and that this profession is hurting me . . . No; Hannibal tells me that I'm not crazy, that there's something behind this and it's not something you can just brush off and deny, and I haven't created it myself. Hannibal understands, doesn't he? Or is it that he's the one assigned to act like he understands? I shake off the thought. There is more than that, isn't there? He does see me as more than just work?

I swallow and rest my chin on my hand, elbow resting on the arm of my chair. I look out from my living room window. I see some sort of animal moving in the brush across the street. Dark, I think. It weaves in and out of my field of vision. I feel the rate of my heartbeat pick up slightly.

I don't like to think about it, but there's something else. I've been lonely and afraid, dealing with the state I'm in, and the expectations that are held of me. I'm still the one that everyone relies on to solve these cases, even while I know my mind is unraveling. How can someone expect me not to feel lonely and vulnerable in my position? Spending time with my psychiatrist grants me one of the only times I feel that someone cares; honestly, it's the closest thing I have to. . .

I lace my fingers together and lean back in my chair, closing my eyes . . .

I feel him there, his eyes piercing the space between our two chairs in his office. Something subtly dark, but subtly sweet lies in the gaze. I once hated eye contact - as I had told him - but something about the way he looks at me puts me in the moment, throws me back to reality, no matter the state my mind may be in. Not only do his words somehow help me, but the listening, the watching, the occasional touch. His hand lingering on mine at the end of a handshake; the arm resting on me as he leads me to the seat or to the door. What really helps me is having someone there, not necessarily to talk to; but someone to simply exist in the same room as me, without insulting me, pitying me, questioning me or my sanity. There's nothing like it when you live with no other human beings - when the people who know you never have anything they can give you that will make you feel anything other than guilt or doubt in your own mind. There must be a professional principle that says a therapist must try to make his patients feel comfortable, but is that all? Does he, as a person, enjoy my company? Does he like being there, too? Or is it just an assignment? I feel myself clenching my teeth. If I could just get a little closer - if I could tell Hannibal how he _affects_ me, or . . .

My thoughts suddenly switch gears as I glance up again to see that dark figure, now revealing itself as what appears to be a large dog, stepping onto the road. I freeze for a second to watch it, and blink for a moment, as it seemed strange that this animal would be venturing out of next to nowhere to my house - and as I open my eyes, there lies simply a mass of mangled darkness on the cold ground. I gasp involuntarily as I see a pool of crimson forming beside the shape on the pavement. A dog? Was there a car I hadn't seen? I stand up, slamming my mug down and starting towards the door in a panic. I open the door and visually scan the street, stepping outside - Nothing. Do my eyes deceive me? I run closer, and stop, searching the yard, breathing heavily, turning my head frantically from side to side. I shake my head and bite my lip.

"Can I help you sir?" I hear. I jump and spin on my heels out of surprise.

I blink and take a breath in. A man was walking his dog down the way and had stopped to ask if I was alright. His dog is a Westie - nothing like the dog I could swear I saw. God, I must look ridiculous. I shake my head and give a half-genuine smile, "No, just thought I saw something, I, I'm sorry," I stutter as I wave timidly and head back down my driveway, realizing I hadn't put shoes or socks on before running outside. My feet were nearly frozen after mere moments.

I feel a sense of dread. It happened again. I closed the door as I made it inside, heart still pounding. I try to make sense of the situation, but things are fuzzy. There is no sense to be made, I think with a tight sensation in my throat. This has to stop. I feel a wave of exhaustion overcome me. I can't keep seeing these things. I can't; I can't let this be me. This can't be me, because I'll never make it - not in this profession, not in any other; Not in happiness, not in love, not -

I cringe. I hear it echo in my mind that while my world is crashing down, love is what I'm praying for. I'm never one to want attention; never one to want to feel special or different or even needed. It's best when I'm alone, when I can think for myself. But something has changed. Maybe I've been scarred. Aside from needing stability and confidence that I'm reparable, the warmth of love is something I need right now. Everything else is twisted, warped, and in it I have no chance as I am. I close my eyes and make my way to the bathroom, where I watch my pallid, shaken reflection go through the acceptance of my revelation along with my mind. I start to tremble more as I acknowledge where I now need to go: Back where a semblance of sanity surfaces; back where I can feel just a tiny bit of coherence; where I might actually feel a tinge of hope for something that will leave me with a sense of warmth rather than a chill. As wrong as it would be to expect Hannibal to feel any sort of love for someone like me, someone as broken and afraid. . . Hannibal is the closest thing I have.


End file.
